


Highs and Lows

by Avengerz



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, And he gets some!!, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Victim Blaming, but not from Ty. Fuck Ty.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-10-25 07:14:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17720582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avengerz/pseuds/Avengerz
Summary: Injuries aren't always visible, and healing isn't always linear. Bucky and Tony find this out the hard way.Or: a vindictive ex, a party gone wrong, and the seeds of love thrown on salted earth





	1. The Birthday Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back after approximately 2,000 years without writing to dump this in front of y’all. I thought of this fic while trying to take a nap on a bus and immediately had to write it, and I’m not sure I want to know what that says about my mental state.
> 
> NOTE: There is non-con drug use (roofies) and attempted rape but!! It is implied and does not happen!! There's also gonna be some rough consequences for said attempt, including ramifications on mental health and some victim blaming. I promise that it’s all gonna be okay but proceed with caution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony's birthday doesn't go quite as planned

“Happy birthday,” Natasha says, and then: “This is my brother.” 

Tony turns away from watching Happy trying (and failing) to flirt in order to give her the full force of his confused stare. “You have a brother?” He glances at the man hovering behind her, then looks again, because  _ hot damn _ . “You have a hot brother and you never even told me?” He’s torn between offense and amusement, but curiosity wins out as he notices red creep up the side of the mysterious brother’s neck.

To his credit, the man’s expression doesn’t even twitch. He’s standing a bare step behind Natasha in a posture that suggests he’s one drunken shout from bolting, all wired tension and stiff attention. His hand is clenched at his side. The other, a cheap prosthetic by anyone’s standards and near unbearable by Tony’s, is hanging limp.

Tony’s attention is pulled back to Natasha as she says, “I told you I was bringing him tonight.”

“Right,” Tony says, searching desperately through his memories of the last weeks, but he’d been too occupied with his thesis to pay much mind to anything that wasn’t a robot. “Well,” he says brightly, “welcome to the party, Natasha’s brother! Gotta say, you look nothing alike. Actually, with the whole stubble and long hair thing, I guess you look just as murder-y and hot. What’s up with that? Did you go to an assassin school as children or something? I mean, not that I’m complain-”

“Tony,” Natasha says in a tone that means ‘shut up right now if you value your balls.’ Tony shuts up. “Bucky just got home from his tour.”

Behind her, the man’s eyes skitter towards the doors. He’s too disciplined to fidget, but the discomfort radiating off of him is thick enough to taste. Clearly his time in the military isn’t something he wants to talk about, and it doesn’t take a genius to realize it probably has something to do with his prosthetic arm. Luckily for him, Tony doesn’t want to talk about his tour. “Hold up. His name is Bucky?” Tony turns wide eyes on the man, who is startled enough to meet Tony’s gaze. “Your name is  _ Bucky? _ Is this a joke?”

The man’s voice, when he speaks, is gravelled with disuse and sends shivers up Tony’s spine. “Real name’s James,” he says shortly, “but I’ve been Bucky for as long as I can remember.” 

“Alright, fair enough.” Tony extends a hand for a shake, because he has business drilled into his bones, but his right hand, even though he’s left handed, because he’s not a total dick and it’s clear Bucky isn’t comfortable with his prosthetic. “I’m Tony.”

Bucky’s smile, when it appears, is crooked and small, but somehow still breathtaking. “Nice to meet ya, Tony.”

Tony is starting to realize he might have a problem. He’s a big believer in lust at first sight, but this guy - this gorgeous man with legs for days - is Natasha’s brother and Tony would actually like to survive to his twenty second birthday. 

“Okay, cool.” He claps shortly, shaking himself mentally and tearing his eyes away from Bucky. “Well, there’s food in the kitchen, as well as juice and soda. If you want a drink we’ve got a chem major going absolutely wild at the wet bar. Just be careful if she gives you anything that’s steaming. Bathroom is over there, and there’s a balcony over there. Don’t try to jump from the balcony; I know the pool looks close enough but it really, really isn’t.”

Bucky chuckles, a quiet rasp of a thing. “Sounds like ya know from personal experience.”

Tony shrugs and tries not to stare at Bucky’s lips. “What can I say? It was in the name of science.”

“And you’ll do anything for science, huh?” Bucky sounds amused.

Tony absently realizes that Natasha has walked away, probably on her way to beat Clint at Mario Kart. “I mean, hey, they don’t give doctorates to just anyone.”

Bucky blinks. “You got a doctorate?”

“As of two days ago, yep.”

“But you’re…” Bucky trails off, probably realizing there’s no good way to end that sentence.

“Young?” Tony smiles, fox sharp. “You don’t know me, so I’ll excuse that. But trust me, I’m a big boy and everything.” He winks at Bucky, who looks a little like he’d like to sink into the floor. “Enjoy the party,” Tony says, and turns away.

His apartment is big - bigger than he needs, really, but Howard’s paying for it - but there’s enough people stuffed inside that it feels cozy. His living room’s been overtaken by a bunch of engineers alternatively arguing about the aerodynamics of various karts and yelling profanities as they get blue-shelled. Tony spots Natasha looking smug as Clint throws down his controller with a shout. Bruce, sprawled nearby, shoots Tony a longsuffering look. Tony grins at them but continues. The dining room’s been converted to a dance floor, and Tony winds his way through the writhing bodies with ease, nodding his head to the music and flashing smiles at guests. The kitchen is quieter, but not by much. Tony sidesteps a couple making out against the fridge and beams as he sees Pepper, a cocktail in one hand that she’s gesturing with as she talks to a underclassman who looks simultaneously terrified and in love. Tony can relate.

“Pep,” he calls out, and Pepper turns from the conversation. She smiles widely, and Tony figures she’s three, maybe four glasses in to be so animated.

“Tony!” She says, “I hope you’re enjoying the party!”

Tony smiles, affection bubbling up in his chest. “It’s fantastic, Pep, thank you. I don’t know where you found that bartender, but she’s amazing.”

“Right?” Pepper leans into him, her voice dropping to a not-quite whisper. “She’s in my entrepreneurship class and I want to eat her out so bad.” She giggles, amused by her own crudeness, and Tony wraps an arm around her shoulders. 

“Hell yeah, Pepper, get it!” Her warmth against his side is familiar, comforting. Tony’s not drunk, exactly, but he’s had enough drinks to relish in the human contact without feeling weirdly guilty about it. He watches with amusement as the upperclassmen hovers a few feet away, watching Pepper with puppy dog eyes. “And what about Prince Charming over there?”

Pepper shrugs, the motion exaggerated enough that her drink sloshes in her glass. “He’s a poetry major,” she says, as if that explains everything. Tony nods sagely. Pepper squirms away from him then, stepping back so she can meet his eyes. “Are you good, Tony? Really?”

Tony’s fond smile fades at the seriousness in her tone. “I…”

“Because I know it was rough, that whole thing with Ty-”

“I’m good,” Tony says, and gathers his wits enough to flash a grin. “Really, Pep. I just graduated, it’s my 21st birthday, and hey, now I can sleep with anyone I want! It’s all good.” She knows him well enough to raise a skeptical eyebrow, but says nothing.

“Oh,” she says, “I was supposed to tell you that Rhodey has a gift for you.”

Tony sighs. “I said no gifts!”

Pepper just shrugs. “I think he’s on the balcony.” She shoves him lightly and turns her attention back to Mr. Poetry Major. Tony rolls his eyes at the obvious dismissal and winds his way back through the dining room. He sticks closer to the walls this time, avoiding eager hands on the dance floor with a wink and a “later.” He checks the locks on his bedroom and the bedroom-turned-workshop as he goes; he knows his office and the guest bedroom have already been commandeered by drunk and horny graduates, but a man’s gotta have some sanctuaries.

They’re still secure, so he continues out onto the balcony. It’s far less crowded out here - with the sun having long since set, only smokers and the occasional couple are braving the cold. Tony spots Rhodey with a couple of aeroengineers and raises his hand in a lazy greeting. Rhodey grins and makes his way over.

“I thought you were quitting,” Tony says, with a pointed glance at the cigarette dangling from Rhodey’s lips.”

“I am quitting,” Rhodey says, and then, “Tony!” as Tony deftly snatches the cig away for himself.

“Hey,” Tony shrugs, “I’m helping you quit!”

Rhodey rolls his eyes but doesn’t try to reclaim it. Instead he says: “I’ve got a gift for you.”

Tony blows out smoke in a long sigh. “Yeah, Pep said. I told everyone I didn’t need any gifts.”

Rhodey waves a dismissive hand. “I’m your best friend, Tones, of course I got you a gift. That’s how it goes: you tell me you don’t want a gift, I get you a gift anyways, you protest but secretly love it. It’s in the friends handbook.”

“Just for that,” Tony replies smartly, “I’m going to give whatever you give me to DUM-E. I really meant no gifts.”

“Good thing it’s not a tangible gift, then,” Rhodey says, and pulls an envelope from his back pocket.

“Looks tangible to me,” Tony says, but reaches for the envelope with eagerness he can’t quite hide. Rhodey chuckles as Tony rips into it.

Tony reads the paper inside once, then again, slower, to make sure he didn’t misread. When he looks up at Rhodey, he knows his eyes are wide. “Is this for real?”

Rhodey’s grin softens, turns into something quieter, fonder. “Yeah, Tones. As long as you want me, I’ll be the Air Force’s official liaison to Stark Industries.” His grin returns. “You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?”

What can Tony do but hug him? They cling to each other for a long time, as Tony most certainly does not cry a little into Rhodey’s shoulder. When Tony finally pulls away, Rhodey keeps a hand on his shoulder. “Happy birthday, kid.”

The mood breaks as Tony shoves his hand away. “I’m officially twenty one, you can’t call me kid anymore!” 

Rhodey shrugs. “Still a kid to me,” he says loftily, “a dumbass freshman trying to ask me to buy condoms because you-”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Tony says, but he’s laughing. “Go smoke another cigarette and tell yourself you’re quitting someday.”

“I am quitting!” Rhodey says, but he walks back towards the group he’d been smoking with. 

Tony waves his head with an absent, “yeah, yeah,” and heads back inside. His fingers and ears are smarting from the cold, and he heads towards the bar to warm up.

He waves over the bartender for the evening, a brunette whose long hair is swept up in a ponytail. “Birthday boy,” she chirps. “What can I do you for?”

Tony shrugs. “Something that’ll warm me up, but nothing too sweet.”

She nods sagely. “I’ve got just the thing,” she says, then whirls off. Tony turns to put his back against the bar as he surveys the apartment. It’s full of people he knows, or that know him, or that know someone who knows him, but it’s also full of friends. For the first time in his life, Tony has more friends - real friends, true friends - than he can count on one hand. He relishes in the thought for a moment, in the knowledge that they’re all gathered here under his roof to help him celebrate. It’s good, it’s- it’s really good.

Someone to his right strokes fingers down his arm, and Tony turns with a smirk. The smirk flickers, then dies, as he takes in the blonde leaning casually against the bar next to him. “T-ty,” he says, and hates the way his voice stutters. He clears his throat and says, clearer, “what are you doing here?”

“What,” Ty drawls, “I can’t come to your birthday party? We’ve known each other for three years, Antoni, of course I’m coming to your party.” He looks good, in a sleek tuxedo that makes Tony feel underdressed in his comfortable jeans and long sleeved t-shirt.

“Yeah, but we,” Tony gestures vaguely, “you know, broke up.”

Ty waves a hand dismissively, “Well, yeah, but surely you don’t avoid everyone you sleep with. If you did, I’m pretty sure this apartment would be a lot emptier!” He laughs and Tony grits his teeth.

Ty must see something in his face, because he raises an eyebrow. “Are you still bitter about it? It’s been a month, Antoni, come on. It was a bit of fun, sure, but we both knew it wasn’t going to last. Neither of us are really the relationship sort, hmm?”

Tony tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. It hurts to hear Tiberius describe two years of dating and Tony’s first serious relationship as ‘a bit of fun,’ but he’s not going to let Ty see the pain on his face. It would just make him laugh, and Tony’s done playing as Ty’s joker.

“Yeah,” he says, with a grin that hurts his cheeks. “You know me. Not a, uh, relationship kind of guy.”

“Exactly,” Ty says smoothly. He suddenly steps in closer to Tony, reaching a hand over his shoulder. Tony sucks in a breath at the sudden proximity, his nose filling with the scent of Ty’s ridiculously expensive cologne. Ty glances down, his smirk telling Tony he noticed the reaction, but he doesn’t say anything. He withdraws and Tony sees he’s holding a drink - something opalescent swirling in a tall glass. Ty pushes it into Tony’s hand and Tony wraps his fingers around it numbly, unable to think until Ty steps back. “You ordered a drink, right?” Ty sounds amused and Tony blinks, nods, blinks again, trying to clear the sudden fog from his head.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Antoni,” Ty says, and Tony recognizes his smirk now. It’s his seduction smile, the one he used whenever he pulled Tony out of the workshop or laid a rolled up bill next the line on Tony’s kitchen counter. It used to make Tony’s knees weak, heat flashing through him at the knowledge of being wanted, of being desired, but now he’s just confused, and increasingly uncomfortable.

“So,” Tony says. “I’m gonna, I’m gonna go play Mario Kart.” 

He steps away, drink in hand, but Ty’s hand snaps up to grip his upper arm. “Oh come on, what kind of a party is that? I didn’t realize you were turning twelve, Antoni. Aren’t you supposed to be an adult?”

Tony knows he’s being baited, but he bristles anyways, turning a glare on Ty. He’s spent the last six years of his college career proving he’s not the child everyone seems to think he is, and Ty knows that it’s a sore spot. There’s a pleased glint in his eye that tells Tony he’s gotten exactly what he wanted as Tony growls, “Stop it, Ty. What are you even doing here?”

“Well, I thought we could have a more adult kind of fun.” Ty leans in close enough that Tony can feel his warm breath against his ear. “I brought some new types of candy.”

Tony blinks, breathes, tightens his fingers around his glass with a hand turned clammy. It’s tempting, too tempting, but Tony had sworn to himself and more importantly, to Jarvis, that he’d cut back on the drugs once he graduated. He’s an adult now, Tony remembers his old butler saying, and that comes with certain responsibilities that should not be drowned out. “I… no, Ty, I quit all that stuff. No.”

Ty leans back, and Tony tries not to crumple in on himself at the frown on his face. “When did you become so boring, huh? You know you’re the best lay when doped up.”

Tony can’t quite contain a flinch. “I said no, Ty,” he says, not quite as strongly as he would have liked.

The frown deepens and Tony’s eyes flick away from his face like a magnet repelling. He scans the nearby crowd for one of his friends, but there’s a crowded dance floor between him and them, and the few people he recognizes are too drunk to notice the situation.

“You should leave,” Tony says, staring resolutely over Ty’s shoulder.

“Fuckin’ buzzkill,” Ty says. “God, you really are only good for a quick fuck.”

Tony closes his eyes as he feels Ty shoulder past him, then releases his breath in a long, shuddering sigh. 

Well, that sucked. 

Tony remembers his drink, still in his hand, and takes a long, fortifying drink. He’s not quite sure what’s in it, rum maybe, and there’s a touch of sweetness that Tony doesn’t really enjoy, but it settles his nerves well enough. 

He drains it in a couple of quick pulls then leaves the glass on the bar with a nod at the bartender, who waves back. Tony wants to dance, now, get lost in the music and the simple motions of bodies against bodies, so he heads back into the fray of the dance floor. 

The music is good, a low beat that thrums in his bones and not too much nonsense rapping to distract him. It’s easy enough to find dance partners - he’s the birthday boy, after all, as well as being a genius and heir to a billion dollar empire. People tend to flock to him, and while most of them are simpering lackeys vying for a position as trophy spouse, that’s exactly what Tony wants right now. 

Tony moves, blind to anything but the writhing bodies, deaf to anything but the pounding of the bass. He feels at once electrified and numb, his skin prickling at the touch of his admirers, his body moving without any rhyme or reason except for what feels good. 

He’s dancing with a blonde girl he vaguely recognizes from the university coffee shop, and then a tall brunette whose taken off his shirt to reveal what must be a lifetime gym membership in the making. Then there’s a redhead, and she says something that makes him laugh, although he immediately forgets what it was. A twink grinds against him and Tony watches him with fuzzy amusement before turning to dance with another man, this one taller than him with wicked green eyes.

Tony moves easily, his head lolling as he stares up at the ceiling, which flashes with dance lights. There are hands on him, eager, passionate, wanting, and he follows their pushes and pulls, follows the rhythm of the crowd. He’s sweating and someone’s removed his shirt, leaving him in a tanktop and jeans that cling to his legs. It’s good, it’s so good, and he is laughing and singing the wrong words in time with the music and dancing without care. 

His stomach rolls suddenly, and Tony freezes in the middle of the dance floor, ignoring the people around him who try to push him into motion. Then he’s moving, pushing his way heedlessly through the crowd until his bedroom door is in front of him. The lock springs open easily with his fingerprint, and he lurches inside. He only barely makes into the bathroom before he is violently sick.

“Oh, fuck,” Tony says, and is distantly surprised at the slur to his voice. He usually has a much higher tolerance than this, and at this point in his life he hardly ever vomits when he drinks. He slumps to the side, his head supported by the blessedly cool wall of the shower. It’s hard to think, his thoughts tripping along at a snail’s pace and refusing to cooperate.

Tony blinks at the tile. What the fuck was in that drink? It was strong, sure, but nothing that should have left him like this. 

He’s just starting to realize that something is deeply wrong when a hand appears in the corner of his view, reaching to flush the toilet. Tony turns, his head weirdly disjointed and wobbly, to look at the person who’s entered the bathroom.

Ty grins down at him. “I told you we were going to have some fun, Antoni.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Bucky’s POV! Meeting The Gang™, the struggle to get a soda, and a cry for help. Spoiler alert: he is Not Happy
> 
> Most of this fic is actually already written (gasp) but I’m holding the next chapter, The Broken Soldier, hostage until y’all meet my demands of validation via kudos and comments


	2. The Broken Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky knew this birthday party was a bad idea, but he couldn't have predicted this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: In case y'all didn't see the notes, there is attempted rape in this chapter!! It doesn't actually happen but it might be triggering. Following it is some canon-typical violence involving Bucky's fists and Ty's face, so watch out for that. Stay safe, y'all!

Bucky really, _really_ doesn’t want to be here. When Tasha had suggested this - attending a birthday party for someone Bucky doesn’t know in a world that doesn’t seem to fit quite right anymore - he’d agreed only because his therapist thought that it was a good idea.

“I understand your desire to isolate,” she’d told him, a week ago in that bright room with its generic paintings and comfortable couch. “But it’s important to re-integrate with society. We are social creatures, James.”

“I’ve got Tasha,” he’d protested half-heartedly. “And Stevie.”

“Yes,” she’d said, and smiled, “and I’m glad your sister and your best friend can provide you with a support system, but you know that you can’t hide away from the world forever. This party seems like a good opportunity for you to interact with others in an environment where you have your sister at your side and can easily leave if necessary.”

Bucky likes his doc, he really does. She's ex-Navy, and scarred enough that he knows she isn’t just talking out of her ass. He also knows that now, three months after returning from Afghanistan minus an arm and plus a whole lot of issues, it's time to stop lurking in Tasha’s apartment and re-discover the society and people he’d laid down everything for in the Army.

So he’d agreed to attend, with great reluctance and only after bombarding Tasha with questions.

“Tony’s good people,” Tasha told him, and she smiled just a little. “He’s loud, and wickedly smart, and yet somehow still an utter dumbass.” She’d met his gaze then, and he recognized the look in her eyes from nearly two decades ago in the orphanage, and from all the time since then. It meant, ‘you can trust me.’

“He’s got his issues too,” she said, and ignored Bucky’s flinch to continue, “and I can’t promise he won’t pry, but he understands better than most when not to push. It’s refreshing.”

Bucky trusts Tasha, more than anyone in the world besides Steve, and it’s clear, even if she wouldn’t admit it, that she likes this ‘Tony,’ cares for him in a way he’d only seen extended to himself and her part-time boyfriend, full-time friend, Clint. So he’d agreed, and that brought him here, awkwardly hovering behind Tasha in the foyer of an apartment that was bigger that he’d expected, at a party more crowded than he’d hoped.

He felt her hand brush against his - the only hand he had left - and she squeezed it quickly. It settled his nerves enough for him to breathe in and out slowly, the way Dr. Burns had taught him. It helped, and Bucky was able to follow Tasha further into the apartment, only slightly cringing away from the revelers who brushed against him.

Missing Steve isn’t a new thing, after six years in the army and three out of the country, but it’s sharper now, more vicious, when he knows his best friend is only miles away instead of halfway around the world. But Stevie has an overnight shift at his third job tonight, and Bucky understands that money is tight. With his paltry military pay and his inability to get a job with all of his issues and one functioning hand, he understands very well. Steve had turned those big blue puppy-dog eyes on him, still so effective even with the hundred pounds of muscle he’d gained while Bucky was on tour, and apologized profusely, even suggested taking the night off, but Bucky had waved his concern away.

“I’ll be with Tasha,” he’d said, “And if she thinks this is a good idea, I’m not gonna be the one to argue with her.”

Steve had huffed a laugh at that, and the moment had passed. Now, a stranger in a strange land, Bucky feels his absence like a hole in his chest.

Tasha doesn’t let him linger in his dark thoughts for long, pulling him to a stop and pinching his leg in a move that effectively draws his attention - and his fiercest scowl - to the back of her head. She ignores the heat of his glare with practiced ease, and Bucky follows her gaze to - _oh._

The man before them is short, only barely taller than Natasha and a good head below Bucky himself. His hands move and his face crinkles as he speaks with Natasha, incredibly expressive. When he grins - and he does so easily - his eyes sparkle with the mischievousness of someone who’s in on a joke that he’s willing to tell you if you ask nice enough.

He calls Bucky hot, and Bucky’s heart jumps up into his throat and then settles again in his chest, beating double time. Only experience with years of drill sergeants doing their best to make him break face keeps his expression blank, but he feels heat creep up the back of his neck and light up his ears.

Natasha slips away, and Bucky tracks her progress with the ease of second nature. He registers her flopping down on one of several couches clustered around a flat-screen TV, and the familiar sandy-blonde of Clint’s hair, but his attention is trapped in the deep brown of the man - Tony’s - eyes.

Bucky hasn’t felt like this in… years, maybe, and certainly not since he lost his arm and was shipped back to a world where people either awkwardly avert their eyes from his stump or stare rudely at the prosthetic dangling uselessly from his shirt sleeve. He’s uncomfortable with it now, this heat that lights up in his chest and races through his nerves like lightning, and awkward with it.

He used to be good at this, he knows, effortlessly charming with all genders much to their foster dad, Nick’s, consternation. But the war changed that. It changed a lot of things.

He sticks his foot in his mouth, accidentally insulting the genius at his own birthday party. Bucky wants to apologize, but he’s frozen as Tony smiles sharply and fades away into the crowd.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and a few people nearby cast curious glances in his direction. Bucky ignores them and muscles his way over to the couch where he last spotted Tasha, frustrated and disappointed and frustrated at his disappointment.

“Heyyy!” The greeting draws him from the cycle of angry thoughts, and he looks up in time to see Clint salute him with a beer can. “Good to see you, Barnes! I thought Nat said you were still lurkin’ in her apartment like a greasy hermit!”

Trust Barton to steamroll through any awkwardness with all the tact of a drunken cow. Bucky rolls his eyes and drops down onto the couch as Tasha obligingly moves over. “What can I say? I heard you were gonna be here and had to make sure your face hadn’t gotten fucked up by any of those little ninjas you teach. Only I get that right.”

Clint nodded wisely as Tasha releases a huff of air that Bucky recognizes as amusement. “Gotta say, Kate is pickin’ up Krav Maga alarmingly quickly, but my beautiful face remains unmolested. All the better to kiss your sister with!”

Natasha punches Clint in the shoulder since Bucky can’t reach with his right arm, and Clint complains with the air of a man who knows that he deserved it but isn’t just going to roll over and take it.

While Clint’s busy mumbling curses and licking beer from his fingers, Tasha points around the room. “That’s Jane, she’s working on dragging teleportation from sci-fi to reality.” A brunette flashes a grin and a wave from atop the lap of a muscled blonde that Tasha introduces as, “Thor, her boyfriend; he owns a gym but not a grasp on modern English.”

Thor beams, adding credence to her words with a bellowed, “Well met, friend!”

“This is Bruce, who’s going to end up completely revolutionizing our understanding of physics or killing himself with radiation.”

The ruffled-looking man in question mumbles a mildly offended, “hey!” but doesn’t try to refute the point.

“You know Clint-” Barton waves an absent hand in Bucky’s direction before picking up his abandoned controller, “and this is Darcy.”

“Wow, when Clint described you as tall, dark, and handsome with a side dish of killer thighs, I thought he was exaggerating, but you’re really all that and a set of stormy eyes, huh?”

Bucky blinks at the girl, and then around at the others, who seem relaxed and comfortable in each other’s presence with the air of well-worn friendship. “Um.” He says. “Yeah, that’s me.” It comes out more of a question, but Darcy seems satisfied, running her eyes down Bucky in a way that makes him want to squirm before returning her attention to her phone.

“Here.” Bucky jerks back, eyes a little too wide, as Clint thrusts a controller in his face, but Barton talks over the awkwardness of the moment with ease. “I’ve gotta beat _someone_ at Mario Kart tonight if my pride is going to survive, and you’ve been away from an Xbox for like thirty years, so I figure I’ve got a chance.”

Bucky takes the controller slowly and feels himself relaxing as he realizes the settings have been modified to allow a one-handed player. “Don’t get too confident,” he says, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “I usually beat Tasha at racing games, growing up.”

Clint pales slightly, but starts the race regardless, some mix of pride and stupidity making him try anyways. A half hour later, Bucky has thoroughly trounced Clint in a tournament. He sets down the controller and can’t help his smug expression as Clint curses and tries to figure out how Bucky cheated.

“It ain’t cheating if you’re just good,” Bucky says, comfortable enough to drawl. Tasha holds up her hand and Bucky hits it in a high five without looking away from the screen, where Princess Peach is still twirling in celebration while Mario cries. Clint returns to his muttering, enough reluctant admiration in his tone that Bucky decides not to take offense.

He heaves himself up off of the couch, still a little weird and off-balance with his left arm - what remains of it - swinging uselessly. “I’m gonna go get a drink.”

Tasha looks up, eyes sharp, and starts to uncurl, but Bucky waves her away. “I’ve got this,” he says, quiet under the sounds of shouting as Darcy starts a new race with Clint. She eyes him for a moment longer, then nods and settles back against Clint. Still, he feels her eyes on his back, tracking him as he heads for the kitchen.

It had been annoying when they were younger, Bucky rubbed raw and angry from the system and Tasha always watching him, quiet and wary. Nick had helped, as well as counseling and that healer of all things, time. Now, it’s a comfort like a bright coal at the bottom of his ribcage to know that he’s not alone, that his sister’s got his back, always.

It gets louder and more crowded as Bucky heads deeper into the apartment, and he tries to cling to the blanket of comfort that had settled over him while playing, tries not to let his shoulders creep up to his ears. He’s not entirely sure if he succeeds, but he arrives in a shining steel room that must be the kitchen without anyone bothering him.

There’s less people here, less noise, too, and Bucky weaves his way around the quiet clusters of people to where a variety of sodas and juices are laid out on a counter. He reaches for a soda, only for a hand to move it out of the way before he can grab it. Bucky follows the line of the man’s arm to find a scowling face, suspicious eyes watching him from beneath furrowed brows.

“Refreshments are for guests only,” the man says, “and I don’t recall seeing you on the guest list.”

Bucky stiffens, his spine pulling him up to attention at the unspoken threat, even as he frowns confusedly at the man, who’s surely Bucky’s own age, if not a year or two younger. “I’m invited,” he says, the words coming through a clenched jaw. “I’m Natasha’s sister; Tony already welcomed me.”

The man doesn’t seem convinced, his eyebrows inching even closer together as he looks Bucky up and down. “Is that so,” he says. “Well, I don’t think-”

“Happy, leave him alone.” A high, clear voice stops the man in his tracks, though his scowl doesn’t fade as a lithe, strawberry-blonde woman steps between them.

“Pepper, I told you, it’s my responsibility to-”

“And I told you,” the woman, Pepper, says, with the fond exasperation of a familiar argument, “you’re not going to be able to monitor everyone here. That’s just how Tony’s parties go, and we both know it.” Happy shuts up, though he doesn’t look happy about it - is that where the name came from?

Pepper turns to him with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that; of course you’re free to have a soda.” She laughs, “I sure hope you do; I bought them to be drunk, not just sit around as decoration!”

Bucky snags a root beer, but he’s focused more on this woman. “You bought all this?”

“Well, with Tony’s money.” Pepper waves a hand as if to indicate the party as a whole. “He was far too busy with his doctorate to plan a party, and he’s useless at planning things like this anyways. He asked me to set this up, and,” she giggles, and Bucky realizes that she might be a little drunk, “I’m not too noble to admit that I love spending Tony’s money.”

“So,” Bucky says, hoping he doesn’t sound as awkward as he feels, “Tony’s rich?” It would explain the big apartment, he supposes.

Both Pepper and Happy - who’s still lingering nearby, arms crossed and glowering - shoot him a look, as if surprised that he didn’t know. Bucky tries not to bristle under it, and Pepper clears her expression to a slight smile quickly enough. “His father is, at least, and he doesn’t care what Tony does with it.” Her expression drops into something too bitter to be simply anger. “Doesn’t care about Tony at all.”

Bucky blinks, not sure what to say at that, and feels strangely like he’s collecting pieces to a puzzle that most people don’t even realize exists. Luckily, Happy’s hand falls, perhaps a bit pointedly, on Pepper’s shoulder, and she visibly shakes herself out of the bad mood.

“Sorry,” she says brightly, “a bit dark for a party, hmm? I hope you enjoy yourself, Mr…?”

“Bucky,” he says. “Well, Mr. Barnes, but please, call me Bucky. Everyone does.” He holds out his hand to shake, and Pepper takes it with a smile.

“Call me Pepper. I’m in a similar boat - my real name’s Virginia, but when Tony chooses a nickname for you, it has a tendency to stick.” Bucky chuckles at that, clutching at this new puzzle piece and still not sure quite why he cares. “I need to go talk to the bartender,” Pepper says then, with a smile that implies she means more than she says. Happy, behind her, rolls his eyes. “Have a nice night, Bucky.”

“You too, ma’am.”

She laughs again at his formality and whirls away, Happy a glowering shadow.

Bucky stares after them, then looks down at the soda can still in his hand. He’s not really thirsty anymore, but Tasha might want it, so with a mental shrug he turns back towards the living room.

The dance floor seems, somehow, even more crowded than before. Bucky lingers in the safety of the kitchen doorway for a moment, mentally planning his route back to the living room and resisting the urge to find a cupboard in the kitchen where he can wait out the rest of the night without having to deal with any (more) drunk strangers.

It’s as he’s surveying the scene that he notices a disturbance in the middle of the crowd; exclamations as people are jostled out of the way. The disturbance moves in a line towards doorways that Bucky had noticed earlier, in his habitual scan of entrances and exits whenever he enters a room. His attention caught, Bucky finds himself… not quite surprised, but something tightens quickly in his gut as he recognizes Tony pushing his way out of the crowd. Even from a distance, he looks sweaty and ill, fumbling at the door before rushing in and leaving it ajar behind him.

Before Bucky even understands what he’s doing, he finds himself striding across the dance floor. Partygoers step out of his way with exclamations and wide eyes, and Bucky realizes he is using what Steve teasingly calls his “murder strut”; the purposeful march that had convinced bullies to back off an easy target when they were kids, and that earned him respect in the Army.

He’s making a beeline towards the door Tony rushed through, but his steps stutter as he sees another man, blonde and well-dressed, disappear through the door, which swings mostly-shut behind him.

What is he _doing?_ Bucky doesn’t know Tony, not really, not besides a disastrous conversation and the glimmers of info he’s picked up from others. If Tony drank too much and got sick, that’s definitely not Bucky’s problem. And it’s not like Tony’s alone - someone else has already stepped in to help, someone who Tony probably actually knows and wouldn’t mind having around when throwing up.

Bucky’s steps slow from his murder strut, and he washes up against the wall between the cracked-open door and an identical one that’s still firmly locked. He puts his back to the wall and sighs, suddenly realizing that his fingers are cramping and white-knuckled around the soda can.

Dr. Burns had warned him this might happen - instincts honed for war shooting off warnings in an environment without danger. Bucky rolls his head back onto the wall with a thunk and sighs at himself. PTSD is a hell of a bitch, and there are times - usually after Bucky wakes up on Tasha’s couch with screams trapped in the back of his throat and his hand reaching for an arm that is no longer there - that he wonders if he’ll ever leave the war behind. Sure, he’s thousands of miles away from an active warzone, but it’s there whenever he closes his eyes.

Bucky stares out blankly at the throngs of dancers and talks himself through some breathing exercises, trying to disperse the anxiety still thrumming through him. The flashing lights and crowd of strangers doesn’t help, so he closes his eyes and focuses on the steady beat of the bass, the irrelevant murmurs of stranger’s conversations.

It helps, his heart slowing from its snare drum beat inside his chest, the vise loosening from around his neck. He breathes in again, slowly, and releases it in a deep, bone-rattling sigh. Bucky’s working up the energy to go find Tasha and ask if they can leave when something beneath the heavy noise of the music catches his attention.

Someone else probably wouldn’t have noticed, but Bucky’s been trained to listen for the slightest whispers that might indicate a trap even under the thundering of gun-fire. Between the pounding bass and the sounds of a drunken crowd, Bucky hears, quiet but clearly discernible, someone saying, “no.”

It’s not the rejection of someone who’s been offered a drink, or a partier who doesn’t like the music. It’s the kind of no, desperate and scared, that Bucky’s used to hearing in med tents and during the hellish two weeks he spent as a prisoner of war.

Tension floods back into him, and his head snaps up, his ears straining for the noise. There’s a few moments where Bucky tells himself it’s more PTSD symptoms, that his brain is playing tricks on him to simulate the environment he’s become used to, but then hears it again, slightly louder and unmistakably slurred.

It’s coming from the room Tony had run to, the room that the blonde man had followed him ino.

He steps towards the door, then hesitates as he realizes what he’s doing. What is Bucky going to do, bust into Tony’s bedroom all gung-ho and traumatized while his friend tries to convince Tony to drink some water? Bucky may have made a bad first impression with the host, but he’s not about to completely ruin the guy’s birthday party. But then he hears the voice, barely audible over the music.

“Shut the fuck up, Antoni, god. This is why I prefer you gagged, you know.”

Those aren’t the words of a caring friend, and Bucky finds himself kicking through the door without thought. In the bare seconds it takes for the door to crash against the wall and rebound towards him, Bucky takes in the scene with the practiced eye of a sniper.

There’s Tony, laid out on a bed with his feet dangling, hair dark with sweat and eyes rolling in a face gone slack. His shirt’s gone, and his jeans have been pushed down to his ankles, caught around his shoes.

Leaning over him is the man Bucky saw earlier, still impeccably dressed in a suit and all the more malevolent for it. He looks over his shoulder, something dark and hungry in his face transforming into shock as he sees Bucky in the doorway. His slacks, Bucky sees, are unzipped.

Bucky doesn’t give him any more time to react.

The world has gone red and strangely fragmented around him. Bucky moves on instinct, feeling only the rage pouring through his veins like molten lava, and he doesn’t even realize he’s thrown the can of root beer until the man doubles over. He doesn’t get any time to recover, Bucky’s fist meeting his face with the satisfying crunch of bone and the familiar sting of knuckles splitting.

The man howls and stumbles back, but Bucky follows him, relentless. He punches again and again, his fist impacting with the man’s gut, ribs, sternum. He’s careless in his rage, though, and when he swings wide, the man has the presence of mind to attack back.

He catches Bucky in the jaw with a fist but Bucky barely feels it. He bares his teeth and tastes blood, and the man falters for a half-second before grabbing at Bucky, going for a lock.

Luckily for Bucky, the man grabs onto his prosthetic, and Bucky twists out of it as the man tries to wrench him around. The look on the man’s face as he looks down at the plastic arm would be hilarious, if Bucky could feel any emotions past an all-consuming fury.

Instead, he punches again, taking advantage of the man’s confusion to punch him in the throat. The man drops like a pile of bricks, gasping, and Bucky kicks him in the ribs for good measure.

With the man curled into a fetal position, blood dripping onto his tuxedo and his eyes flickering with the look of the barely-conscious, Bucky finally forces himself to stillness. He’s still so, so angry, electrifying his muscles and keeping his fist clenched at his side, heedless of the sting of bleeding knuckles. He resists the urge to kick the man again (and again and again and _again_ ) only with the knowledge that there’s other things to attend to.

That thought breaks through the haze of red, and Bucky turns to look at Tony.

The brunette is still sprawled out on the bed, the awkward jerks of his arms showing that he doesn’t have the energy or mobile function to even push himself up. Bucky rushes over to him, and he’s worried for a moment that Tony will flinch from him, but one look at his face reveals that Tony doesn’t have the presence of mind to react to Bucky.

His eyes are still rolling, wide and unseeing, and Bucky feels anger transform into a heavy mass of guilt, concern, and fear as he sees the tears dripping down the sides of Tony’s face.

“Hey, Tony,” he says, as gentle as he can with his rough voice. “It’s Bucky, Natasha’s brother, remember?” Bucky doubts he does, doubts Tony is even processing what Bucky’s saying, but the words help him stay calm as he takes in Tony’s state. “You’re safe now, okay, that guy’s not gonna touch you again. I’m gonna- I’m gonna pull up your pants right now, okay, and then we’re gonna call the cops and the hospital and we’ll get this all worked out, okay?”

Tony is limp and unresponsive under his hands, but Bucky still tries to touch him as little as possible as he pulls up his jeans. Bucky stops then, at a lost as the rage and adrenaline seeps away.

There’s a clatter of noise from behind him, a shouted, “Tony!” and Bucky remembers, belatedly, that there’s a good hundred people still out in the apartment. A hand grips his shoulder hard, rips him away from Tony, and Bucky moves easily with it.

A man is in his face now, one Bucky doesn’t recognize, tall and dark-eyed and absolutely furious. “What the fuck did you do? You motherfucker, I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch!”

Bucky blinks at him without making an effort to defend himself. He may not have been the one who did this to Tony, but if he had trusted his instincts, moved faster, maybe, _maybe-_

The man pulls away from him suddenly, and Bucky finds himself swaying before someone steps in to take his place. Bucky collapses in towards her before his conscious brain even recognizes Natasha - he would know her deaf and blind.

She catches him easily, arms wrapping around him in a familiar hug. Behind her, Bucky’s faintly aware of that woman - Pepper - rushing to Tony’s side, and of the black man pulling the blonde attacker, still bloodied and limp, up from the floor.

“Tasha,” he says into her hair, and suddenly realizes he’s trembling, fear and nausea sweeping in to fill the hole that adrenaline left. Bucky can’t form any words, any conscious thoughts sizzling and sparking uselessly along his neurons in the fallout. He can only whisper his sister’s name, hurt and confused and still so angry.

Tasha grips him tightly, tight enough to keep him in the present. “It’s okay, James,” she whispers back. “We’ve got you now. Everything’s going to be okay.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up Next: Natasha's pov, both because she's the only one with anything approaching objectivity in this situation and just 'cuz i love her okay?? she's awesome and i love her.
> 
> The next chapter, The Fallout, should be posted this weekend, but maybe y'all could convince me to update sooner with some nice comments...? I'm not above being bribed with love and validation!!


	3. The Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is calm and rational and prepared to kill a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter is both later and shorter than expected; my week consisted of a series of increasingly convoluted and dangerous adventures which ended with me stranded in a bus station in Leon overnight. Suffice it to say, I didn't have much time to write or edit. Still, hope y'all enjoy this!
> 
> As you may have noticed, I updated the expected chapter count to 5 chapters. This chapter will be a bit like an intermission before we get back to Tony and Bucky for real.

James is quiet during the ride to the hospital, hunched over in the passenger seat like he thinks that if he curled up tight enough, he could just disappear. He’s clutching at the stump of his arm, and Natasha wonders if she shouldn’t have brought the abandoned prosthetic along. She doesn’t think it would help. James doesn’t even blink at Natasha’s reckless driving, which is usually a point of familiar contention between them. It’s worrying, deeply so.

Natasha’s seen him this withdrawn before, once or twice. It’s a sight she had hoped to never again experience.

It is a source of deep frustration that she isn’t sure what to say. Platitudes are less than meaningless in the face of what just happened, and they’ve never been the type to tell each other pretty lies, anyways. She wants to say that it’ll be okay, that she will make sure that it’s okay, but trauma isn’t something she can scare or charm or manipulate into fixing, the way she could get James thicker blankets or an extra cookie back at the orphanage.

He’s older than her, technically, but Natasha knows she’s just as fiercely protective of James as he is of her, if not more so. It hurts, now, to see him in pain and unable to do anything about it.

She reaches a hand out to lay it on his knee, feels him jerk at the touch and the force of his stare on the side of her head, but she doesn’t look away from the road. After a small eternity as light flashes past as they race down the highway, she feels his fingers rest on top of hers.

It’s not enough, but for now, it’s all they can do.

The hospital is well-lit and surprisingly busy for 3 am. Most of the activity, Natasha realizes after a quick glance around, centers around the person that also brings them here. Tony himself is nowhere to be seen, likely already whisked behind the swinging doors to the ER, but his presence is clearly felt in the clamor and crowd of worried friends that take up half the waiting room.

She spots Pepper at the front desk, likely dealing with insurance information and other paperwork - she knows more of Tony’s info than the man himself does, Natasha expects. Hogan is a steel rod of tension behind her, glowering at the receptionist as if he can make Tony well by sheer will alone.

It had taken Natasha some time to help James to stop shaking and leave the apartment, so she’s not surprised to see that the rest of the familiar crew has arrived before them. Darcy’s chattering away in an attempt to lighten the mood that seems to be appreciated but ultimately futile, judging by the wan smiles on Jane and Bruce’s faces.

Clint strides over to her as soon as he sees her, and Natasha pulls her hand away from her light grasp around James’ wrist just in time to be swept into a hug. She’s fine, she really is, she’s not one of the players in tonight’s tragedy, but the embrace is comforting, nonetheless. Clint is a constant in her world, steady and strong like a rock against the crashing waves of Natasha’s life, and she’s happy to wash up on his shore and find it as stable as ever.

But James needs her, so she pulls away from Clint sooner than she’d really like. “Come on, James,” she says, and can’t help the way her voice comes out soft and gentle in the face of the lost look on his face. “Let’s get someone to look at your hand.”

James looks down at his hand with something like confusion and flexes it into a fist. Natasha resists the urge to grimace as she sees congealed blood flake off and a fresh ooze replace it from his torn-up knuckles. “Right,” he says, voice rough. “Yeah.”

He follows her easily to the front desk where, after a brief, muted discussion, a nurse waves James inside. They don’t take him back into the hospital proper, just to a sink set up with basic medical supplies. Natasha keeps a careful eye on him as the nurse gently coaches him through washing the blood off his hands so that they can be bandaged.

“Okay,” she hears Pepper say somewhere to her left, voice drawn tight with worry and exhaustion. “Here’s all the info I have for him.”

The rustle of paper, then the nurse: “looks good! Oh, wait, you’ve left the next of kin blank.”

“My info is in the emergency contacts, isn’t that enough?”

To his credit, the nurse sounds genuinely apologetic as he says, “in situations like this when the law is involved, we’ve got to have contact info for a parent or legal guardian.”

“But he’s 21!”

“Well, technically he’s 20 until Monday. Sorry.”

Natasha forces herself to loosen her clenched jaw, and imagines Pepper is doing much the same. “Fine,” she says shortly. “Give it here, I’ll fill it in.”

James looks up from his hands then, where his raw knuckles are disappearing behind bandages. His eyes are clearer as he meets Natasha’s gaze, likely from the sting of the antiseptic and the general hospital smell. It’s one of the reasons Nick had so much trouble taking them to the doctor as they were growing up – they’re both hyper alert and suspicious in medical environments.

She blinks slowly at him, and some of the tension eases from his shoulders, but lines are still drawn deep around his mouth and eyes. The nurse gives him a bag of ice for the rapidly purpling bruise on his jaw, and Bucky takes it absently before returning to Natasha’s side.

“So how-,” he says, then clears his throat in a futile attempt to sweep some of the gravel from his voice. “How is he?”

In response, Natasha turns to Pepper, who looks better than she sounds; her eyes are red from crying and worry is drawing lines at the corners of her mouth, but she’s surprisingly put together for someone who just had to follow an ambulance with one of their best friends to a hospital at the wrong side of three in the morning.

Natasha isn’t surprised she isn’t showing the stress she must be feeling. After all, it’s Pepper.

“Rhodey’s in with him now,” she says, “helping to keep Tony calm while they flush the drug out of his system.” Pepper glances at James and hesitates, before continuing, “they’re running tests, too, for the type of drug and… other things.”

“They’re putting together a rape kit,” James says bluntly, and Pepper sighs.

“Yes. It’s necessary evidence. Stone’s in police custody right now, and I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he stays there.”

James nods, a grim satisfaction in the set of his mouth, and Tasha feels the same vindictive joy. Of course, even if Tiberius manages to charm or pay his way out of jail, there are other ways of making sure he pays for what he’s done.

Putting that thought aside for now, Natasha raises an eyebrow at Pepper. “I heard that you had to give them Howard’s contact information.”

Pepper scowls. “Yes. We’ve just got to make sure Tony isn’t alone to face his father.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Natasha says. She keeps her face blank, but frustration and anger roils in her chest. It’s too much, Tony getting assaulted by his abusive ex, James bloodied and shaking, and now Howard Stark to deal with.

Tony doesn’t talk about his relationship with his father, except in the occasional self-degrading joke. Natasha knows it was never good to begin with, Tony desperately trying to please a man with impossibly high standards. What little affection lingered between them was destroyed, however, with the death of Tony’s mother. Tony blamed Howard for Maria’s death, Natasha gathered, and Howard hated the guilt and memories that Tony’s very existence invoked.

Natasha met Tony a bare month after the crash and at his most self-destructive. She hadn’t understood, at first, chalked him up as a rich man-whore who lost himself in booze and drugs because he could. It was only through her friendship with Pepper that she spent any time with Tony at all.

Exposure built up tolerance, Tony had joked, and Natasha didn’t entirely disagree. It was only after several months that Natasha had been able to see beneath the arrogance and carelessness that Tony drew about himself like a cloak. It took nearly half a year after that for Tony to drop the act around her, and Natasha had found herself irresistibly charmed by the real Tony, passionate and generous and too smart for his own good.

Natasha loved Tony, she could admit if only in the privacy of her own head. After five years of friendship, she cared for him like a brother. It was one of the reasons Natasha had insisted that James come to this party; she’d wanted two of the most important men in her life to finally meet. And if she had some thoughts about Tony’s eligible bachelor status and James’ desire for someone to love, well, all she was doing was introducing them. Anything that developed after that was up to them.

Bitterness and guilt rise in the back of her throat like bile. Things hadn’t exactly gone according to plan.

Before Natasha can fall deeper into the useless cycle of self-recrimination, she’s drawn from her thoughts by Hogan’s voice. “We’re probably going to have a problem with the press,” he says, his face set in a scowl that might very well be permanent. “It’s gonna slip out that Tony’s here, for sure.”

Pepper sighs her acknowledgement, and Natasha nods grimly. They’ll shelter him as best they can.

“Uh, why?”

They turn in unison to face James, whose cheeks redden under their combined attention. “Um, I mean, why is the press gonna care? Not to say that they shouldn’t! I just-”

Before James can dig himself into a deeper hole, Pepper cuts him off with a soft laugh. “You really don’t know?”

She glances at Natasha, who shrugs. “It never came up.” Unspoken, the shared knowledge that Tony has been judged for his name and found lacking far too many times. If Natasha can avoid revealing the extent of Tony's wealth and burden before first impressions can be made, she will. 

So will Pepper, who hums in acknowledgement,  then says, “Tony’s full name is Anthony Stark.”

James blinks. “Okay?” He glances at Natasha, aware he’s missing something, and she takes pity.

“He’s the son of Howard Stark and the heir to Stark Industries.”

“Oh,” James says, then, “ _Oh._ ” Emotions chase their way across his face too quickly for even Natasha to catch before he sighs heavily. “I’m gonna sit down,” James says, and stumbles away.

Natasha tracks him to a chair near Bruce, who grimaces in commiseration as James collapses next to him. She checks her phone and is relieved to see Steve has replied to her texts with a terse _‘On my way.’_

This ordeal isn’t yet over, and Tony isn’t the only one who will need the support of his closest friends in the coming days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me about laws or hospitals or hospital laws bc idk I am just a poor author trying not to get on a watchlist for researching roofies!!
> 
> The next chapter, The Loose Screw, will bring us back to Tony’s POV as he deals with, like, everything. Angst ahoy, lads! That chapter will (hopefully) be up before this weekend, but I’ve also got two exams this week so who knows
> 
> Love y'all, let me know your thoughts about Nat, Buck, the situation in general, or whatever else you'd like to share!!


	4. The Loose Screw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard's a dick, Ty's a dick, Tony's just trying to survive and Bucky has a crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey two weeks later here's the chapter. this was some real tough shit to write and it'll probably be hard to read, too. check yourselves, gang, and make sure you're good to proceed bc
> 
> WARNING: this chapter deals with victim-blaming, bad parenting, (semi-unintentional) self harm and the general bad stuff that comes after your ex-boyfriend slips you a date rape drug and you're a high-profile playboy.

Tony’s had some very bad weeks. Some truly terrible weeks. Some ‘trampled into the mud and then spit on for good measure’ kinds of weeks.

For example: the week Jarvis died and Howard hit him for crying for the first (but definitely not the last) time. The week he’d spent captured by some lowlifes, and then recovering as Howard yelled for the waste of ransom money. The week his mom died, and Howard managed to stumble from the wreckage, the smell of alcohol still on his breath.

There’s an undeniable trend here, and Tony shouldn’t be surprised that Howard’s interjecting himself into this, what might truly be the worst week of Tony’s life to date.

It surprises him anyways, when he gets the call. He was released from the hospital an hour and a half ago, so it’s been about an hour since the first pictures were published, of Tony shuffling from the hospital, eyes firmly trained on the ground as Pep and Rhodey tried to glare the paparazzi into submission.

Yes, he should have expected this call.

“I’ve got to take this,” he tells Pepper, and is distantly surprised at how steady his voice is. He stands from the couch, and Pep uncurls from the cushion next to him - close, but not too close.

“Tony-” She sounds worried, and Tony doesn’t want to worry her, not anymore than he already has with the disaster of the last twelve hours, so he flashes a smile at her.

“It’s my thesis advisor,” he lies easily, “probably just calling to go over some last details.”

It’s clear she doesn’t believe him, and the worry just grows on her face. She doesn’t try to stop him, and neither does Rhodey, who’s stopped his clattering in the kitchen to watch the scene in silence.

So Tony escapes to his workshop - not his bedroom, not, not for a while, maybe never again - and closes the door behind him.

He takes a steadying breath, and answers the phone.

“Hello,” he starts, and doesn’t even get through the word before Howard is shouting.

“It’s not even six in the goddamn morning and stocks have already dropped seven points because of this stunt of yours! I’ve got better things to do then running damage control for your fuckups, Anthony. If you’re going to destroy what little brain you have with drugs, at least keep it out of the media!”

“It wasn’t like that,” Tony tries, and is quickly cut off.

“And the police! You’re no good to me with a criminal record, boy. Shit, maybe Obadiah is right, his nephew might be an idiot but at least he has the goddamn sense to avoid situations like this. You keep this up and I’ll find a new heir to SI.”

Tony’s heart seizes in his chest. “No, Howard, sir, you don’t need to-”

“I’ve been receiving calls from James Stone, too, something about you accusing his son of, of sodomy? Viastone is still too powerful to be made an enemy, what were you thinking?”

When silence falls, Tony realizes Howard’s actually waiting for an answer. With difficulty, he un-clenches his jaw, loosens his vice grip around the phone. “Tiberius assaulted me.”

“What, he hit you?”

“No, he, uh, he put something in my drink-”

“That’s not new, is it? I know he’s been your dealer, or whatever you call it. I’m not seeing the problem here.”

The thing is, Howard’s not wrong. Tony isn’t bruised or bleeding. The drug wasn’t much worse than things Tony’s taken voluntarily. Ty barely touched him, and even if he had, it’s not like he hasn’t fucked Tony before.

“There’s no problem,” Tony says, and hates himself for how soft his voice sounds.

“That’s what I thought. Stark men are made of iron, Anthony, remember that. You’re clearly old enough now to make your own mistakes, so I’m cutting off your monthly allowance. There’s a spot waiting for you in R&D, but only when you’ve pulled your head out of your ass. Understand?”

Tony must make some kind of noise, because Howard hangs up.

For a long minute, Tony just stares down at his steel work table, the phone still pressed to his ear with fingers gone white from the strain. He feels… weird, like he’s been ripped out of his own body. Static buzzes against his bones, between his ears. The world takes on an unusually hazy feeling. Slowly, he lowers the phone, sets it down on the table, and is distantly surprised that his fingers don’t just pass right through it.

He considers that, the press of his fingers against the cold steel. Pain bites, sharp and sudden, and he realizes he’s put his other hand down on the sharp edge of some discarded metal. Strange, that the pain should feel so real in a world gone fuzzy.

He presses harder and the pain flares in response. Blood drips from the palm of his hand, and he watches the beads of scarlet with fascination. How is it that the world is still affecting his body when he’s not in his body anymore?

Hypothesis: his body can still feel physical pain.

To test the hypothesis, he’ll need more tools.

Later, Tony will be grateful that his friends know him too well to leave him alone. Because that’s when Rhodey finds him, gathering wrenches and blades and screwdrivers with single minded devotion.

He doesn’t process the words correctly, sees Rhodey’s mouth moving but doesn’t understand. His ears are ringing, a high pitched buzz that must be coming from the static that’s filling up his skin.

He follows the hands on his shoulders easily enough, doesn’t protest when the tools are taken from him. He’s taken… somewhere, and there is another voice that he can’t comprehend. The world is a confusing, difficult place right now. He drifts.

When Tony comes back to himself, his hand is wrapped in bandages and is in Pepper’s hand. He’s on the couch, he realizes, with his back pressed against Rhodey’s chest and Pepper humming a melody he almost recognizes.

“Woah,” he says. “Damn, not quite sure what just happened. Sorry you had to deal with it.”

He can’t see Rhodey’s face, but the arms around him tighten. “Don’t apologize, Tones. We should have been there, we should have-” his voice breaks, and Tony pats at him clumsily.

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” he says, and isn’t quite sure what he’s even excusing. He knows that Rhodey hasn’t done anything wrong, though. Never.

Pepper looks up, and her eyes are red with fresh tears. Fuck, hadn’t he been trying not to worry her anymore?

“Hey,” he says again, a little more forcefully, “It’s alright, guys! I’m fine, you’re fine, we’re all fine.”

“No,” Pepper says softly, and Tony flinches before he can stop himself. She reaches up, lays a hand against the side of his face and he leans into it. It makes it easier to hear her say: “No, Tony, it’s not alright. You’re not fine, and neither are we. But we’re going to get there, okay, honey? It’s going to be okay.”

Tony closes his eyes and tries to believe her.

In the days following The Incident, Tony’s life becomes a whole new kind of hell. He gives a statement to the police, and reliving the night is even more humiliating than living it. God, how could he have been so stupid?

Pepper tells him it’s not his fault, Rhodey says he didn’t do anything wrong, and Tony nods but knows the truth.

Stone posts bail, of course, but Pepper’s got the legal cogs running for a restraining order. The media gets wind of that, too, and for days Tony can’t leave his apartment for the press camped out his door.

They interview the other party-goers who are all too eager to testify on how drunk Tony had been, how loose, how eager for it he’d been. Pepper turns off the news whenever she finds him watching it, but Tony must watch, has to know. His memory of the night is still clouded, after all, and it’s always good to hear an outside perspective.

For three days, Tony lives in Rhodey’s old sweatshirts and his loosest sweatpants, sleeps on the couch and subsides entirely on whatever Rhodey can whip up in his bare-bones kitchen. He’s recovering, or so Pepper tells him.

Tony doesn’t know. If he’s recovering, shouldn’t he start feeling less shitty?

Eventually, Tony pulls himself out of his puddle of self-pity, drags himself into a suit and out the door. He flashes smiles at the cameras and quips about the mistakes of youth and doesn’t clarify whose mistakes.

He puts in hours at the research and development building for Stark Industries, and the techs watch him and whisper behind his back but Tony’s long since become used to the consequences of fitting his mortal body into the persona of someone larger than life.

He gets dinner with the Science Squad, and reassures Jane and Bruce that he’s fine, really, and anyway, he has to tell them about his latest breakthrough in artificial intelligence.

He feels eyes on him everywhere, concerned, assessing, mocking, judging. Tony bares his teeth in what can be excused as a smile and forces himself to keep going.

Two weeks after The Incident, Tony’s summoned to court. It’s a hearing, the clerk tells him, in order to establish reasonable ground for his requested restraining order. The defendant, he is told, has also been summoned.

Tony nods, and says thank you, and ignores the pounding of his heart.

It’s all but impossible to keep things like this from the public, so there’s a new surge of paparazzi outside his door on the day of the hearing. Tony wears his darkest sunglasses and his third-nicest suit and does his best to ignore them all while Happy clears the way to the car and Pepper repeats ‘no comment’ like the world’s prettiest broken record.

Stone is there, of course, because nothing in Tony’s life is easy. He’s lounging in the defense section, cool and aloof in a white suit and chatting idly with a squirrelly man that must be his lawyer. He doesn’t look over when Tony walks in, but Tony can’t quite seem to tear his gaze away. Ty looks calm, but of course he does. Tony’s only seen him lose his composure on a few occasions, high out of his mind or shouting at Tony or manhandling him onto the bed, telling him to stop that stupid whining, goddamnit, i’ll gag you and then what’ll happen if you throw up again, huh, i’m not going to help you anymore than i already have-

Tony bites the inside of his mouth, and the sting brings himself back to the present. Pepper would say something about unhealthy coping mechanisms, but what she doesn’t know won’t make her worry.

There’s people on his side of the aisle, too. Bruce and Jane and Rhodey and a nondescript woman who must be one of Howard’s lawyers. Natasha’s here too, and Tony feels himself calm a little at the sight of her, because he knows she won’t let Ty within ten feet of them. And next to her- ah.

“It’s Bucky, right?” He slides his sunglasses off and tries to ignore the way Natasha flicks her gaze across the poorly-concealed bags under his eyes. So he hasn’t been sleeping well, or at all. It’s fine.

“Um, yep.” The man looks uncomfortable in an ill-fitting suit, one sleeve hanging loose and beard just barely on the right side of ‘artfully stubbled.’ He makes it work, though, and Tony tries to ignore how much he appreciates the view. “Pepper said you’d probably need my testimony?”

“I mean, I hope we can get this over with as quickly as possible, without any testimonies or whatnot,” Tony waves a hand, “but, yeah, thanks for showing up. I definitely owe you, GI Joe.”

Bucky blinks but takes the nickname in stride. “It’s the least I can do. Anyone else would do the same.”

Tony feels his smile stutter on his face, and forces it back into shape. “No, not everyone.”

Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes, and he nods, solemn. “No,” he says. “Not everyone.”

Without thinking about it too hard, Tony pulls one of his business cards out of a pocket and offers it to Bucky. “Hey, after this is over, give me a call. You deserve a drink or a better prosthetic or a new car or something.”

Tony smothers a laugh as Bucky’s eyes widen comically. “Uh, no, I couldn’t-”

Tony catches Natasha digging her elbow into Bucky’s side and grins. “What’s the point of being filthy rich if I can’t spend money on my friends? Don’t deprive me of this, Prince Charming.”

Bucky still looks a little like a fish out of water, open mouth included, but he pulls himself together to nod. “Yeah, okay. Um, thanks, Tony.”

“No,” Tony says, and is almost surprised at how sincere he sounds, “thank _you._ ”

Bucky smiles then, and damn, Tony had assumed his memory of Bucky’s blinding smile was messed up along with most of his memories from that night, but nope, it really is that nice. It’s small and kind of crooked and his eyes light up and his face fall into long-worn wrinkles of happiness and it’s just- it’s nice. Tony smiles back helplessly.

Then the judge comes in, and Tony’s lawyer calls him over, and Tony’s far too busy avoiding looking at Ty to think any more about Natasha’s brother.

It goes about as well as can be expected, probably.

All of Tony’s knowledge about the going ons in court come from tv shows, and is therefore suspect, but he thinks it’s not quite as formal as criminal court would be. There’s a judge with a black robe and a bored expression, but no jury. They both have lawyers but there’s not nearly as many speeches or heated debates as Tony would have guessed. There’s not even anyone recording the whole thing on a typewriter.

But there is the presentation of evidence. Tony keeps his sunglasses on and his face neutral as his lawyer displays pictures of him, half-naked and eyes rolling, in the hospital. He doesn’t look at Ty, can’t. There’s test results to prove he’d been drugged, and DNA samples from Ty.

Then there’s the testimonies. Bucky goes first, probably because an account from an eyewitness is more trustworthy than either Tony’s or Ty’s, which, fair.

He’s stiff on the stand, obviously uncomfortable, and recounts the story almost methodically. Tony supposes he was in the military, he’s probably had to give mission reports before. Tony appreciates it, actually, that Bucky speaks truthfully but emotionlessly. It’s so much better than pity or guilt or disgust.

Ty’s lawyer tries to go after Bucky for assaulting Ty, and that’s the first time Bucky’s mask slips.

“I didn’t do anything worse to him than he would ‘ave done to Tony. That asshole should be lucky he’s just walking away with a broken nose.”

There are objections, and the judge reminds Ty’s lawyer that this is not a criminal hearing, and reminds Tony’s lawyers to keep her witnesses under control. Tony ignores it, watching Bucky. His jaw is still tight and he’s glaring daggers at Ty, who pretends not to notice. Tony can’t see Bucky’s hand but he’d bet his entire fortune that it’s clenched into a fist.

Tony doesn’t inspire that kind of protectiveness, that kind of loyalty. Well, maybe, but only from people who he’s paid, or have known him for over half a decade. He reminds himself sternly that Bucky would have done the same for anyone, because he’s a good guy. Tony isn’t special.

Tony’s testimony is difficult. He spends an agonizing fifteen minutes alternatively desperately making jokes about everything or forcing the truth through the lump of shame in his throat.

Throughout it Ty watches him, his snake gaze steady and amusement tucked into the corner of his mouth.

Ty’s lawyer is ruthless. Tony tries not to break under the onslaught, explaining that yes, he had slept with Ty before, many times and yes, he’d done drugs with Ty before, also frequently, and yes, he had been drinking recklessly that night, but no, this is different.

Tony’s not allowed to wear his sunglasses on the stand and he knows his expression is giving away too much, Howard always tells him that his eyes are too goddamn soft, they always give him away and he’s right, he’s always right, and as Tony stammers his way through half-broken protests, Ty watches him, his smirk growing ever wider.

Finally, the lawyer relents and returns to Ty. Tony manages not to stumble off of the stand, and slams his shades back over his eyes. Fuck. If they don’t get this restraining order than it’ll have all been for nothing.

His lawyer seems to be thinking the same thing. She leans over to whisper to him as Ty and his own lawyer do the same. “Even if this doesn’t go through,” she says, “we can still sue him in civil court. You could try criminal-”

“No,” Tony says shortly. “I’m not pressing charges.”

An expression flashes across the lawyers face, one that Tony’s grown to know from Pepper and Rhodey over the last few weeks. It’s frustration, mainly, but also pity and no small amount of annoyance. It means: “Why are you like this? Why won’t you do this thing that I think is good for you? Why must you be so prideful, so arrogant, to think that you don’t need help?”

It’s not a good expression to see, but Tony’s faced variants of it all his life, and he doesn’t step down now. “No,” he says again, and something in his voice makes the lawyer look away.

Tony looks over at Ty’s bench, and is surprised to see the lawyer arguing fiercely with Ty. Except, since it’s an argument with Tiberius, this means that the lawyer is whispering furiously and glaring at Ty, but Ty is as composed as ever. The lawyer throws his hands in the air in frustrated resignation, then stands.

“My client has decided to agree to the request for a no-contact restraining order.”

The judge blinks at the sudden about-face, then nods. “Since both parties are in agreement, let’s settle the terms.”

Tony stares at the side of Ty’s head as the negotiating begins. He feels strangely naked, even in his three piece. Tony bared the details of one of the worst nights of his life, had his many flaws pulled harshly to the cold light of day in front of an uncaring audience. There’s no paparazzi allowed in the courtroom, but that’s not going to stop them from pulling the records, getting their hands on sound bites. Tony’s words will be cycled through the media circuit for weeks, if not months, and will never truly disappear from his life. His humiliation will linger on the internet forever.

And Ty doesn’t have to say a word.

Tony signs some papers and nods along to his lawyer’s words without comprehension. He’s still staring at Ty as they pack up their stuff. Just before following his lawyer out of the room, Ty looks over his shoulder at Tony. Their gazes lock, and Ty smirks. He blows a kiss and winks, and Tony can’t move, can’t blink, can’t breathe.

Ty looks away then, dismissive, and walks out of the door and Tony’s life.

Tony doesn’t realizing he isn’t breathing until he feels Pepper’s tight grip around his hand. He sucks in a breath, surprised, and turns to look at her.

“Hey,” she says, and squeezes his hand. “It’s over now.”

“Yeah,” Tony says roughly. “Yeah, I know.”

Rhodey’s there suddenly and pulling Tony into a hug. Tony shudders and relaxes against him. “You’re all good, man,” he can hear Rhodey whispering as he rubs Tony’s back. “We’ve got you.”

Tony pulls himself away after nearly a minute and tries to regain his composure. He turns to Bucky and summons a smile that only feels halfway fake. “Thanks again. Call me whenever you need to cash in this favor.”

Bucky shifts his weight and glances at Natasha. “Um, actually, if you think you owe me, I do have one thing you could do for me.”

Tony ignores the roll of nerves in his stomach. “Shoot.”

“Well, it’s just that Tasha says you’re a mechanical whiz, and you offered earlier, but if it’s too much of a bother or too expensive don’t even worry about it, I just thought that maybe you could, if you want-”

Tony sighs and tells himself that the flush on Bucky’s cheeks is _not adorable._ “Just spit it out, big man. Nothing’s off the table. I can get you an elephant within three days if that’s what you want.”

“Nah, no, I can barely take care of myself, let alone an animal like that.” Bucky’s mouth quirks and he seems to settle. “I was just hoping you could help me get a new prosthetic? I just, uh, don’t like having empty sleeves.” He reaches up to grab the stump of his arm and his gaze flickers away.

“Yeah,” Tony says, and then clears his throat. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Bucky smiles again and god, he really should have to be regulated or something. Someone could die from direct exposure to that much radiance. Tony grins back, maybe a little too widely.

“Ради всего святого,” he hears Natasha mutter just before she steps between them, breaking their gaze. “Stop staring at each other like you want to climb inside each other and let’s go get some ice cream.”

Tony knows better than to argue with Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof. we made it together. feedback is always loved, but i especially want to hear what y'all think now. this fic got a lot darker than i initially expected, but i'm not here to use attempted rape just as a plot device to get my ship together. that's serious shit with lifelong consequences and i don't want to cheapen or dismiss it.
> 
> thoughts, feedback, and concrit greatly appreciated
> 
> love y'all and see you next time in Bucky's POV for The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this, tell me! If you don't like this, tell me! Please god just interact with me!!
> 
> Also, sorry I keep changing the fic description. I just can't seem to find one that's both descriptive and enticing... thoughts?


End file.
